


a look from you and i would fall from grace

by brandyalexanders2 (brandyalexanders)



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex, this one’s about emotional vulnerability and new relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27737911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandyalexanders/pseuds/brandyalexanders2
Summary: set between ‘which side are you on?’ and ‘austerlitz’, because i assume greg had to drive ewan back to canada somewhere in there.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	a look from you and i would fall from grace

**Author's Note:**

> why should the romangerris have all the fun am i right
> 
> for the full experience please listen to kiss me thru the phone while you read this xo

Greg’s looking out his grandpa’s spare bedroom window at a yellowing field, the pale moon skirting the edge of the sky. It feels so open and immense. More open space than he could ever quantify. He’s more accustomed to claustrophobia lately, being surrounded on all sides by something, anything. He can’t tell if this scenic vista of quaint nothing is any more tranquil. 

He takes a hit and breathes smoke through the mesh screen. It spreads like fog across the hills, swirls up and away from him. 

He hadn’t particularly wanted to stay overnight and Ewan hadn’t seemed thrilled to invite him to stay. Twelve hours of driving had left him exhausted, though, and his grandfather must have noticed the sway in Greg’s step when he walked him to the door. He’d been gruff about driving while tired and winter weather warnings, and Greg had been ushered off to the creaky guest room he used to stay in when he was younger. It looks just like he thinks he remembers. There’s a looming white bookshelf with volumes of text that he’s never read, a little wooden nightstand with an analogue alarm clock, and a sparsely-pillowed queen mattress that he’ll have to curl up on to fall asleep in. Besides that it’s barren, no frills or pomp. 

There’s frost feathered over the lawn but it’s warm inside, thanks to a presumably ancient radiator that’s burning near the bookshelf. Greg has lamp-oil lethargy pooling in his fingertips and sunset slowing his thoughts, and with nature’s own gift winding him down, he’s close to comfortable for the first time in two weeks. His brief endeavors into white collar crime and corporate espionage are still distressing, but he’s nearing the point where it feels almost normal. At least he isn’t wracked with up-all-night-shivering paranoia anymore. He’s basically resigned himself to the death pit. 

Anyway, that whole mess is intertwined with Tom, and Tom is currently a touchy subject. 

Greg brushes a hesitant finger against his lower lip. He should probably hate Tom for dragging him down. Maybe he should have gone kicking and screaming. Instead, he’d found himself in a situation that let Tom pull him in even further. Leave it to the two of them to find shovels and dig past rock bottom. 

It was this abrupt kind of thing. They were waiting for a car after a few hours of bottle service in their private section. Greg had accidentally pinned their location on this weird, lonely side street, and Tom was nagging him about it but he was _grinning,_ genuine and ear-to-ear. He’d felt lightweight and slightly worried he might trip and fall. If he had, the paramedics would have been able to pan for gold in his veins, measure it out in tandem with his blood alcohol level. The pair of them were leaning on each other for support and cheerily carousing, and in the time it took for the driver to find them, they’d made a miserable cliché of a mistake and kissed in a dark, damp alleyway where the streetlights wouldn’t see them. 

Why not, right? Greg didn’t think it could get much worse from there. It was clearly just a heat of the moment, drunken accident, played-for-laughs romcom kiss. He’d gone home with Tom anyway. If pressed, he would testify that the moment had simply stayed heated. Tom was convincing in his usual way. He’d invited Greg to his room with his friendly coercion and assuming touch, his tenderly taunting bullshit that Greg shouldn’t even tolerate, let alone _like_. 

But he’s always finding a way to keep Greg under his heel, and really, Greg is always finding reasons to stay there. 

The whole evening had been a losing battle. There were victories along the way, and Tom was a vigilant, meticulous partner, but there was this whole rat’s nest of latent issues that festered under the surface and flourished as soon as Greg had slunk out the back exit in his wrinkled suit. His very first walk of shame, and oh, how shameful. 

So he’s getting high in his grandpa’s attic to avoid his boy problems. What else is new? 

Only, now that he’s got Tom on his mind, he’s got this tug in his chest, a phantom exploration of the places he’s mapped out on Greg’s body. It’s enough to make him feel deep solitude, smarting and sore. He actually wants to know what Tom is doing. He wants to hear him, the brusque cadence of his voice, even if he’s being dismissive. Maybe _especially_ then. He wants to talk back, run his mouth, let Tom correct and chide him. 

He’s fucked up. And his tactile memory of Tom’s clandestine kisses make him wish he’d never left his bed. Now he’s stuck with this stiff old boxspring and only one good option, so he heads for the mattress and plucks his phone off the nightstand before common sense or sobriety can change his mind. It’s safer to talk with six hundred and twenty-three miles between them. If Tom is busy, he’ll just ignore him, maybe text him later and tell him to fuck off. 

“Does caller ID deceive? Am I really on the phone with Gregory Hirsch?” Tom answers on the fifth ring, not that Greg is keeping track. “You’ve been elusive today. How’s the great white north treating you?” 

He sounds different over the phone, still pleasant and arresting. Greg had kind of expected silence, isn’t sure what to say. The rainbow wheel of his brain spins when he tries to come up with banter, so he smiles weakly and manages, “Hey, Tom.”

Tom snorts at him, and Greg can almost imagine the playful disdain in his squared eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re high already. Did you at least wait before you crossed the border, you impious little jazz drummer?” 

“Ha, what? It’s not like I had time to cop, with my grandpa in the car,” he says, and it’s not a lie- he’d found a truly archaic stash he’d squirreled away years before and remembered by chance. Ewan’s house has always been terribly boring. “No, I was getting ready for bed and I just- thought it’d be nice to call you.” 

“Oh, sure, flee the country and now you wanna talk. What exactly were you hoping to go over?” There’s some worry in his voice, as if Greg’s going to fuck up and disclose sensitive information, as if there are foreign intelligence agencies tapped into their call and waiting for the signal to strike. 

He draws his shoulders up in a shrug, though Tom won’t be able to tell. “I thought I might ask, maybe, how your day was, or if you had plans tonight.” He sounds a little too earnest in response to Tom’s ribbing. 

There’s a chuckle on the other end, almost incredulous. “I see,” Tom says, drawn-out and serious, and Greg can’t help but twist his mouth down. 

“Uh, this really isn’t a joke or whatever, I promise? I just wanted to-”

“I get it, Greg. I just didn’t peg you for the type, sly dog. So how should we do this? Are you planning on asking what I’m wearing?” 

Greg is confused, but he’s picking up by the minute, and by the time Tom is done talking he must be blushing all the way down his chest. “That’s not really what I… meant, Tom, and I’m- I’m not alone, but,” he stalls.

“Thin walls? I guess you’ll have to be quiet, then,” Tom says, and the smirk in his tone travels through countless cell towers and straight to Greg’s cock. 

“Um.” It’s not like this is _unwelcome_. Ewan’s a heavy sleeper and he’s probably already tucked in; he’s an early to bed, early to rise kind of guy. Besides, the body high has set in and Greg’s feeling lazy enough to entertain his lust. Tom leading him on isn’t doing him any favors. He swallows, lets his foggy thoughts soothe some of his skittishness. “Quiet, sure, I can give it a try. So, uh- you’re not enjoying anyone’s company, this evening?” 

There’s a pause. “Only yours, so you should make it interesting for me.” Underneath the brazen flirt, he sounds suspiciously like someone trying to hide what kind of pain they’re in. Greg spends enough time managing Tom’s moods to know he should draw the conversation away from the latent tension. He takes a cue from earlier in the script. 

“What’s- um, okay, what are you wearing?” 

“A bathrobe. And you, Greg? Got some strappy black lingerie to describe to me?”

Greg scratches his nails over his bare thigh, feeling scandalized by the idea. He’s not sure if he hopes Tom is joking. “No, just my driving clothes. You know, my-my sweater and a normal shirt. Um, no pants,” he adds, because Tom might find that helpful. Visual aid, or whatever. 

It seems to get his attention. “Yeah? Boxers or briefs?” 

“Boxers,” he answers sheepishly, “they’re- maroon?” 

“Oh, look at you go. You’re just oozing sex appeal. Are you a bad boy, Greg?” 

Tom’s tone makes his eyelids droop, his breath slip in his throat. He can’t tell if he should respond with the same kind of alpha bravado that Tom’s pulling on him. It takes him too long to decide what’s appropriate, so he mumbles the first thing that comes to mind. “Um. I could be persuaded to be?” 

“You could be p- sorry, what the fuck is that?” Tom sounds actually perplexed. Greg winces. “Do you need a PowerPoint pitch to convince you to get slutty?”

“I mean, I’m not _currently_ , but under the right circumstances I think, yeah, I could probably-”

“Here, Greg, shut up. Pull up that outlet mall sweater and touch your chest. Softly.” 

He does. He hitches both his shirts up under his chin and rolls the gentle pad of his thumb over his nipple until he gasps. It’s good doing it the way Tom tells him, hearing his breathing hang in his ear, his uncruel laugh at Greg’s flushed vocalization. 

“Doing alright?” he asks, amused. Greg wants to feel his cold nose pressed against his earlobe while he talks. 

“It’s good, but, hard to talk with both my hands occupied?” 

“Poor thing,” Tom purrs, “but don’t fuss. You’ll just need the one, in a second.” 

Greg _isn’t_ a witless virgin. He’s done plenty of sexual things beyond his little indiscretion with Tom, really. He just knows this is the part where there’s tension to provoke and preserve, so he bites at his lip and plays his role. “For what, exactly?”

“For when I tell you to touch yourself. Don’t rush to it yet, Greg. Patience _is_ a virtue. Tell me what you’re thinking about.” 

Greg spreads his hand over his chest. Really, all that’s been on his mind is just the essence of Tom, these momentary flashes that are hard to whittle into something tangible. “I’m- I was thinking about just being with you, and like, the way you smell, and-”

“Ha. Jesus, you sound like an asshole. Tell me you want me to fuck you, or something,” Tom interrupts, and Greg smiles despite himself.

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” he hedges, and bites off a soft moan. That night after the club- once they were alone in Tom and Shiv’s modern nightmare of an apartment- they hadn’t _fucked,_ just exchanged kisses and blowjobs and body heat until the circumstances forced them to stop. It had been more than enough, but- “Actually, yeah, that sounds really good.” 

He tries to imagine what Tom is doing. If he’s draped over his couch, shameless and bold, if he’s tucked into bed with his hands folded underneath the blanket. It’s this pathetic thought pattern he finds himself going back to when they’re apart, this need to see who Tom is when he’s not near Greg. It’s what made him call, after all. He’s probably silly for it. He’s not the type of person people wonder about after he’s left the room. Tom isn’t either- Greg’s come to note that with some sick satisfaction- but here he is anyway, hunting his attention through the airwaves, hard and helpless. 

Isn’t he meant to be paying attention? 

“Sounds _good_?” Tom is always assessing him in this harsh way that keeps Greg on his toes. He feels like he’s being graded on his performance. At least Tom is willing to teach. “So formal. Loosen up a bit.” 

Greg lets his hand fall to the dip in his stomach, his fingertips just breaching the waistband of his boxers. He’ll be good, though, won’t touch until he’s told, but here’s the thing- he still can’t work out what’s alright to say. Some of the words he could use are so perverse and prickly that even thinking them feels sleazy. He can’t imagine whispering them to Tom. They’re as off-limits as sweet nothings, pet names, outspoken truths, all this lurid language he has no business knowing. 

He’s out of his depth. He flounders, does what he always tends to when he’s drowning; Tom likes to feel superior, anyway. He hopes he sounds breathy and naive- guys like Tom find that hot, right? “What would you want to hear me say?” 

That brings on another tight lull in conversation, like Tom has to give it real consideration as well. He laughs after a second. “Gonna make me do all the work? Greg the pillow princess. I don’t know. What’s your beat? You want to tell me how much you miss my dick? Or maybe you just want me to tell you how gross you’re being calling me at home while you try to keep it down.” 

Greg whimpers, this high-pitched and embarrassing sound that he hopes escapes the detection of modern technology and anyone listening. It’s not like he feels good about being… adulterous, not at all, but having his nose rubbed in his guilt rides the fine line between eroticism and exasperation that makes his blood smolder and seethe. He replies before he can get shy. “The… second one, yeah,” he admits, “but I do, kind of. Miss you. And that part of you.” 

Tom sounds mildly thrilled. He speaks in the same way he pats Greg on the back, runs his fingers through his hair. “Is that right,” he says, as if Greg’s played his hand too early. “I must have made a good impression. But that’s no excuse to come crawling to me to talk you off. It’s barely been a week and you’re already desperate.” 

He is, isn’t he? Maybe this is what he’d been angling for all along. He looks and feels the part with his clothes all askew, his exposed skin burning with the thrill of immodesty. The door isn’t even locked. His voice comes out as shaky as his moral code. “I just- couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wanted to hear your voice, the way you sounded when we,” he murmurs, trailing off. 

“God, you’re easy. I bet you’d blow me at the office first thing Monday morning if I put it on your schedule.” 

Oh. He feels his toes curl, tension flexing through his calves. “We could pencil it in,” he gasps, hoarse and heady. His hand is twitching on his stomach. “I could squeeze under your desk, maybe.” 

Tom’s chuckle is airy and sweet and _painful._ “Like you’d fit down there, you fucking Great Dane. No, I think we’d have to put that annex to good use, or maybe I’d just hide you in the copy room all day.” Greg is weak with wanting, he can’t help but moan, but he catches the sound with his palm before it can get too loud. “A bit eager, Greg, yeah? You really want to debase yourself with your grandpa just a few doors down?” 

There’s only one answer, really. “Please?” 

“You’re _sick_ ,” Tom coos, indulgent like cognac in a chilled tumbler, just as easy to sip and swallow. “But I want you to do it. I want to hear you come for me, so. Lick your palm; get nice and wet.”

Greg defaults to bureaucratic submission and lathers his tongue on the heel of his palm until his hand is slick. He tucks his head so his phone is pinned against his shoulder, covers his mouth loosely with his dry fingers. He shifts his hips so he can get his boxers down just a bit and tries to be quiet when he finally touches his cock and wraps his fingers around the base and squeezes. It’s such a relief that it’s a little bit decimating. 

“Tom,” he says in a broken whisper, “oh god. Will you, if it’s okay, will you tell me, like, what I should do-”

“You talk too much. And you’re having too much fun, I think. Slow down, let it build.” Greg obeys and lets his hand move at a slack crawl. It’s just enough consuming pressure to make his hips jerk, and the bed squeals underneath him with the movement. He curses under his breath. “Listen to you. You sound kind of pathetic.” 

Greg bites at his fingertip to stifle himself. He’s the best kind of mortified, so turned on that every arduous stroke of his wrist feels like raw humiliation, catching him vulnerable, defenseless. He wants to come so bad, knows he won’t until Tom asks him to. “Yeah,” he agrees, just to say something, confirmation that he’s still on the other end of the line. 

Tom actually laughs at him, and Greg has to stop moving to pull himself away from the edge. He pants softly into his hand and pets at the sensitive tip of his cock with his thumb. “I wonder if you’ll make those pretty noises when I fuck you,” Tom says. It’s absolutely presumptuous. But it’s nice and strangely soft, forces Greg to hide his face away, as if he could blush loudly enough to be heard. 

“Yeah,” he whispers again, “whatever you want. I’ll be loud, if you want.” 

“Good _boy._ Why don’t you pick up the pace?” Tom sounds even and composed. “Make yourself feel good, since I can’t be there to help you.” 

That’s what Greg wants more than anything, Tom holding him down and pushing his buttons. He misses his aspartame sneer, the candy-coated aggression he’s so eager to pile onto Greg, his broad hands and plumelike touches that rile him up and then settle him right back down. It’s only been one time and he’s hooked on it. There’s an electric tremble running the length of his body, sparking heat everywhere he’s touching, but it’d be twice as deep and shocking if he had Tom right there with him. 

“I wish you were here,” he says. It might not be quite right, but Greg can’t help the things he wants when he’s frantic and feverish. 

“Yeah. So do I.” 

Fuck, he could come just hearing that. He chokes out as much, whining it to Tom, and Tom replies with pacifying venom. “Are you going to come all over your fingers, Greg?” 

“Is that, like, permission?” 

“Aren’t you obedient,” Tom praises. “Go ahead, do it for me.” 

Greg’s so predictable; he makes quick work of himself and coats his hand, drawing his knees up and in to keep himself from exploding into millions of ecstatic little shreds. It’s so good, it’s like he’s taken some mystery party drug and it’s just burst through his system, that first moment of intoxication when the world just slants to the side. He actually has to dig his teeth into his hand to shut up. He must sound wrecked to Tom, who’s listening in shattering silence while he catches his breath. 

Greg is still reeling when Tom breaks it. “Who’d have thought cousin Greg was such a loose woman?” He sounds warm, content. Greg wants to curl up in the smile he must have plastered on his ridiculously captivating face. 

He shifts so he’s laying more normally, tries not to think about the mess on his hand just yet. “I may have been swayed by outside influences,” he replies, ragged but agreeable. “I really did just want to talk to you, though.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I kind of miss you too. Will you be back anytime soon?” 

Greg allows himself a sly grin. “It almost sounds like you’re looking forward to it, maybe.” 

“Maybe.” 

“I’ll drive home tomorrow, I think? Weather allowing. I have to spend the night. It’s a long way, and grandpa was pretty intense about road safety.” 

“Let me know when you make it?” 

“No problem,” Greg says. He makes a small effort to sit up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “I’ll keep you updated.” 

“Alright. Get some rest now. Sweet dreams, pillow princess.”

“Sure, Tom, talk soon.”

Tom hangs up and leaves Greg tucked into the heavy atmosphere of the guest room. Suddenly he feels very much like a teenager again, sweaty all over and coming down from multiple highs at once. He has to work out a flight plan to get to the closest restroom so he can wash up. Before that, he has to find his slacks on the floor. Then he has to see if there’s anything to cover up the persistent, clinging scent of old weed, because Ewan might actually lose his mind if he finds out that Greg was smoking in the house. 

He feels too unbraced to do any of it. He’s gross, yeah, but he’s still smiling, something in Tom’s farewell keeping him charmed. It’s certainly wrong of him to be so sanguine while he’s sneaking around. The whole situation has the capacity to be very, very bad. Right now it’s just _good_ , just fond, fluttery feelings, honeymoon excitement and private indecency. 

Greg forces himself all the way up. He’s bound by silky afterglow, tied up in a tired, easy feeling that he never wants to unspool. Being with Tom won’t always be so simple, he’s sure. Tom is moody and reckless and just a little bit rapacious. But Tom is also everything Greg wants to hold close, the parts of him that he doesn’t want anyone else to see, the little flares of selfishness that tell him he doesn’t want to stop. 

The flicker of optimism in his chest keeps him hopeful that for now, it’s alright to keep him. 

**Author's Note:**

> lol this took me so long to finish but i wanted to write some cringe tomgreg dirty talk! i started a whole other project along the way!! so i’m working on something that’s a bit longer and more serious and it should be coming your way very shortly!!!
> 
> happy belated holidays tomgreg nation!!!! stay safe out there!!!!!


End file.
